


Julia

by PAPERSK1N



Series: A Taste of Honey [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1950s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Canonical Character Death, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Funeral, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Period Typical Attitudes, pre-hamburg years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 08:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16343714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: Paul and John attend Julia's funeral. John has something to ask Paul.





	Julia

Paul clings tightly to his hand when they enter the church where the service is due to take place, which is nice, even if it doesn’t stop the eerie, sinking feeling in John’s gut. It is more comforting than he cares to admit, but he doesn’t have to admit it- not to Paul. Paul just _knows_ , and it goes without saying, because Paul knows _him,_ more so than everyone else.

 

It’s oddly surreal: the two of them standing here, in a _church_ of all places, holding hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Nobody actually bats an eyelid at them, not that John notices anyway- so he suspects that Mimi sent round some kind of word-of-warning about John’s new unlikely plus-one. An advanced warning, as not to cause a scene during his own mother’s funeral. If not for her foresight, there might’ve been a few disapproving looks here and there from those who had old-fashioned views or even those who just couldn’t tell, couldn’t get close enough to catch a whiff of that perfect cherry-vanilla. John still wouldn’t have cared if they had, and he squeezes Paul’s hand even tighter, black tie tight around his neck.

 

For the entire duration of the service, John’s mind is elsewhere. He mostly zones out, ignoring the droning priest and the warbling hymns and the excerpts of poetry that he’s sure Julia never would’ve given a shit about had she been here, able to have any say in things.

 

All he can think of during this time is the memories _he_ cherishes most- tin submarines wrapped in bows on Christmas morning and rock-and-roll records, smooth jazz, American greats. Dancing and those overpriced thin cigarettes she loved because she thought they made her look more _sophisticated_. The colour red- her curly hair screaming and the bandana she loved to hold it up in, the colour of her washing up gloves, her shoes, her plaid shirt not unlike one of his own. John thinks only of this, of Julia in her entirety until the service draws to a sombre close, and they gather round the graveside, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

 

John doesn’t cry when he watches his mother’s coffin lower into the ground. Mimi weeps like anything, more so than she did even when they laid uncle George to rest, so he briefly releases himself from Paul’s grip to wrap an arm around her, hold her, just for a while. It occurs to him only then that he and Mimi never _hug_. Not unless something is dreadfully, dreadfully wrong, like it is today.

 

After the funeral, their swarm of family and extended friends (God, you’d think Julia was the wildest woman in Liverpool for the sheer amount of _friends_ who came to pay their respects, people John had never so much as laid his eyes on before, people that Mimi and the likes of looked down their noses at) flock back to the church hall to chat solemnly over sandwiches and tea and cherry Bakewell tarts. Only then, whilst Paul is busy enough charming the pants off Mimi’s old biddy pals, does John see a chance to slip away. His feet carry him without a single conscious thought and he finds himself right back at the graveside, earth fresh, flowers bright and blossoming.

 

Lighting a cig, John feels the tears fall to his cheeks before he even realises that he’s crying.

 

Barely ten lonely minutes pass before Paul finds him, a soft call of _John_ from his best friend in the whole world fluttering through the air behind him. John doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge him at all, but Paul understands- of course he fucking _understands_ \- and he approaches John anyway, appearing like a shadow at his side.

 

John doesn’t look away from the fresh marble gravestone.

 

“Hi Paul.”

 

“Hi love.” Paul doesn’t touch him, which John feels is beyond _wrong_ , because any time when Paul isn’t touching him is a waste of time, in his opinion, so he reaches out, wiggling his fingers, content when he feels Paul’s hand slip into his own and squeeze lightly. They hold hands at the graveside, and Paul rests his head on John’s shoulder, nuzzling down his arm, spreading his scent across the expanse of his stiff, new suit in comforting gesture. “I thought I’d find you here.”

 

“Your mam… she’s here too, isn’t she?”

 

“Yeah.” Paul sighs. “Just over there,” he points in the vague direction of some trees, sprouting up randomly between the neat lines of both fresh and crumbling gravestones. “Around the corner, past that big tree. Not far.”

 

“What a place to spend eternity.” John almost feels sick as his eyes flit across the expanse of the graveyard, all the abandoned, crumbling stones representing lives long forgotten and he frowns, before finally turning to face Paul. “Promise me, Paul… if I die-”

 

“-John!”

 

“If I _die_ , Paul. If I die, don’t fucking leave me in some shit-hole cemetery.”

 

“Of course not, love.” Paul squeezes him tightly, kissing his shoulder and then his cheek, hair tickling John’s face. “I’ll scatter your ashes across the stars, if you’d like.” He smiles. “But let’s not talk about death, yeah? Not today. It’s a long time before either of us kick the bucket, I promise. All that’s left now if for us to… pick ourselves up and start again.”

 

“Speaking of…” John turns to face Paul, stroking his thumb across the back of his hand, finally tearing his gaze away from the grave and fixing it on Paul’s instead. “I meant to ask you. Feels weird to do it here but… Julia… it’s what she would’ve wanted. She liked you, y’know.”

 

“What is it, John?” Paul blinks. He’s so completely thrown- unaware of what is to come, for once, and John almost wants to laugh. He knows it isn’t appropriate, but he always laughs when faced with tragedy. He’s laughed at every inappropriate moment in his life so far. It would be inappropriate not to continue the trend.

 

“Just… I know it hasn’t been very long and I know the timing is… well, it’s fuckin’ _shite_ , to be honest. But… I was wondering if you… if you wanted to be my… um, well, _my_ Omega. Properly, like.”

 

Surprisingly, Paul’s reaction it not to immediately leap into his arms and then suggest a cheeky shag around the back of the church, like John was hoping. He actually freezes in John’s stare, perfect eyebrows tugging into a slight frown, expression lost somewhere between frightened and confused.

 

“Like a mate?” he asks. John shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. He knew the timing wasn’t _ideal_ , but _fuck-_ he hadn’t prepared for _this_. He hadn’t expected an honest to God _rejection_ , let alone one served up at his mother’s graveside.

 

“Well, yeah.” He manages to stutter out, and Paul’s eyes narrow just slightly, head tilting to the side.

 

“Like… a _bite_?”

 

“No!” John exclaims, perhaps a little too quickly. Paul flashes him a glare, but it’s half hearted at best. Again, John laughs nervously. He’s quick to squeeze Paul’s hand again, reassuring _him_ rather than letting it be known just how much he’d needed that scrap of reassurance himself. “I mean- steady on, son. I’d love to… mate _with_ ya, of course. But… well, you’re sixteen. I’m not much older. Think your da’ would skin me alive. But still… I do want to like… _claim_ ya. In public, and all.”

 

At this, Paul’s light, confused frown completely disappears, quickly replaced by the smuggest, pleased, annoying little smirk John’s ever seen. He’d hate Paul if he didn’t fucking _love_ him. he really would.

 

“Are you asking me to be, like, your _boyfriend_?” Paul teases, adding a queer little wink just to rile him up further.

 

“Don’t make it like _that-_ ”

 

“-That’s _essentially_ what you’re asking me though, isn’t it?” Paul grins, taking John’s other hand in his so that they are linked in every way, leaning up to drop a kiss on John’s lips. “You want me to be your _boyfriend_.” He says again, but his words hold more of a weight, eyes hooded, voice low.

 

“Shut up,” John says, but it would be impossible to rip the smile off his face now, not with Paul draped over him like a fucking robe. It doesn’t matter that they’re standing in a graveyard over his mother’s grave. John smiles. “-or I’ll batter ya.” And Paul kisses him again and again and a third time, before nuzzling his way into John’s neck, inhaling his scent.

 

“Is that a yes then?” John asks with a laugh, and Paul hums happily, nodding before wrapping his arms around John’s middle, cuddling him close.

 

“Of course it’s a yes, soft lad. I love you, John. I can sense ya from miles away. Mam used to say that’s how you know you’ve met ya soulmate.”

 

Paul can’t see his expression when they’re hugging like this, and a small part of John is glad, because when his eyes fix on _JULIA LENNON_ written in gleaming, gold lettering, a small tear slips down his face, splashing on his forearm as he wraps his arms around Paul’s shoulders.

 

“Funny.” He says, clearing his throat. “Julia used to say the very same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little taste of what's to come! I have a few little drabbles like this planned covering the late fifties / early sixties and then, moving forwards, little tastes of John-and-Paul's life through fame and The Beatles and whatnot. Some will be multi-chaptered, some just a few hundred words. Regardless, I hope you like them :)


End file.
